The Telling of Stories and Tall Tales
by Adriatic Rose
Summary: Avengers/Thor 2 AU: Loki is sent back to Midgard in service to those he once would have destroyed. Tony Stark in in the market for an on-staff librarian to catalog and guard his collection of unarchived works. Charlotte Falk is a Chicagoan in the market for an archivist job. Paths cross, and storytellers and liars clash as they try to eke out a peaceful and meaningful existence.
1. Chapter 1: All Tales Begin

A/N: As always, a disclaimer that no character or place here is of my own creation aside from Charlotte and the general creative license taken with the Marvel Universe as a fan-fic writer. I have had this idea in mind for a little over a year, so I have been working on and off with writing and revising. I have a few chapters in reserve, and I hope to find a "groove" in the writing and updating of this story. So, please drop a review, if you feel so inclined. I have been honing my style for some time now, and it is easy to forget how the work may sound to a new audience.

All Tales Begin With A Grand Entrance:

(On Loki) "He was not a god, but the son of a Giant, and wherever he came trouble followed." - Edith Hamilton's _Mythology_

When the Allfather called the prisoner in, he tried to block out the muffled sob of his wife and queen. He was grateful that the noise had not echoed through the cavernous hall. It would feel out of place in the room finely detailed in gold and pale marble. It was, traditionally, a space for welcoming heads of state and other-worldly dignitaries; it presented the wealth of Asgard and the sophistication of the Protector of the Realms. This day, however, the marble looked sickly and the skylight did not reflect off the gold in a way that spoke of power.

Frigga's empathy, though well-placed due to her relationship with the man being escorted to the dias, was not welcome in the court of Odin. And it was a court: the space now served as arena for judge, jury, and executioner.

Guards led the dark figure forward, chains linked to cuffs around his ankles, wrists, hips, and neck. It was as if even a twitch from his body could spell disaster to those around him. The Protector of Realms decided that was truly possible; he had seen the destruction from the eyes of Heimdal and the accounts his son brought back from Midgard.

Loki of Jotunheim had seemed to snap his fingers and bring death.

When the young man had come as close as was deemed safe, he halted and brought his ankles together in a mock salute. He laughed, a sardonic smile splitting his face.

"I really don't see what all the fuss is about." Ah, there was the Loki that Odin knew. He felt more than saw Frigga deflate. If she would only acknowledge the folly of her devotion, Odin knew his wife would not be as pained as she was in this moment.

Odin reprimanded the pretender and liar, insulted when the man insinuated a connection between them. "We are not gods!" Odin practically spat back to Loki, knowing righteous anger would not sway him. Odin even wondered if eternal incarceration would bring Loki back from the brink upon which he sat. "Why do you insist on violence?" Odin was not expecting an answer, but he asked all the same. Frigga's defeat must have pervaded Odin's heart, and he sat back further in the grand throne.

"I was lied to, made to think I was born to be a king." The sneer marred his handsome features.

"So you harm those who would otherwise need your protection?" A plan was forming in Odin's mind. He adjusted his grip on Gungnir and Loki, perceptive as ever, slightly shifted his weight in preparation. The accused did not respond, only licked his lips in preparation for a well-timed rebuttal. "Perhaps you must learn that rulers must also serve," Odin began. "That lesson will not come if you are hidden away." Odin saw Loki stiffen, saw the network of his brain making connections. Fists clenched, enlarging tapered wrists encircled by cool metal.

"You are not as skilled as I am in the art of rhetoric. If you have something to say, Allfather, I wish you would say it." His mouth took on a disgusted twist. "If I am for the axe, then, for mercy's sake just...swing it." Odin saw the resignation in his eyes, heard Frigga's sharp intake of breath. No, too much desecration and death had occurred. It was time for bridge building.

"I have made my decision." Odin sat up, even leaning forward. "Loki, you are to be exiled from Asgard. Thor shall take you from here to a place where you will aid others in the rebuilding and protecting of their realm."

Loki surged forward in outrage. The guards held him back, but just barely. Their knees locked and the sound of scraping metal chain links echoed. "You are sending me there, to a place filled with those who would see me dead?" He barked out a laugh. "How merciful, indeed. Thor and his precious team will have me destroyed the moment I arrive."

Frigga tugged at her fingers, turning toward her husband pleadingly. "Is this really the best course of action," she whispered so softly only Odin could hear her question the Allfather. Odin simply nodded his head. She sighed, resigning herself.

"Thor will send word before your arrival, offering both your services and his to those with whom he has aligned himself. We will not limit your magic, as it may prove useful where it has until now brought destruction. We will, however, ensure that any harm you inflict upon innocents will be exacted upon you ten-fold."

"Ah, using the royal 'we' when you do not have the power within you to follow through on your threat?"

"I do not have the power, but Frigga does." That fact forced Loki to drop his sneer. His eyes flickered to the one person for whom he had room in his heart. And he knew that her desire for his redemption would bring her to impose the stricture upon him. His breaths came less easily.

"And how long is this farce meant to last? We live for thousands of years while they are gone in a heartbeat."

"As long as is needed!" Loki cocked his head at that, wondering if the Allfather would truly hold the exile for decades.


	2. Chapter 2: Windy City Morning Routine

A/N: Insert general disclaimer here! :) This chapter delves into the life of our protagonist, and draws on the fond memories I have of my hometown. Most of the minor characters are modeled after people I have encountered, though any exact connection to real people is purely coincidental. Enjoy!

Windy City Morning Routine:

"Storytellers are the keepers - we are the time keepers, the continuity keepers. We are the people who tell us who we are, where we've come from, and maybe even where we're going." - Bryce Courtenay

To say Chicago is a bustling place would be doing the city an injustice. It's like herding cats there. Business men in leather shoes use their briefcases to bat away the homeless and the expectant mothers alike, all while keeping a finger to the Bluetooth earpiece. Teens who skipped school in favor of a Magnificent Mile shopping spree duck away from the police that patrol on bicycles. Dust and dirt rain down from the tracks above as the "L" thunders by, its passengers looking out smudged windows with glazed eyes. The smell of hot dog stands and Giordano's mix together with smog and sweat, making a cheesy, meaty, disgusting and yet lovely aroma.

Charlotte was an unlucky recipient of an elderly businessman's attack. He held his phone to his ear, gesticulating with his other hand holding an Armani briefcase. It thumped across the back of the young woman's shoulder as she tried to skoot past unscathed. She shouldered her thrift shop carpetbag as if to tell it that fine cowhide had nothing on trusty tapestry fabric. The back of her left index finger slid her glass up her small nose as she sent a small wave to Toriano, the Trinidadian saxophone player at the corner of Van Buren and Plymouth. His eyes brightened and Charlotte could have sworn he played a little louder, just for her.

The sky was clearing up, and the sun peaking out from behind newly white clouds now danced off the puddles that were created earlier that morning. Charlotte hopped over one as she moved with the throng of people across West Van Buren Street. She did not need to ruin her good pair of black flats. A few straggling pedestrians nearly had their heels clipped by motorists for walking instead of moving more speedily. Charlotte dug around in her bag for her work I.D., hand bypassing a tube of lipstick, her wallet, and an open pack of tissues. This distraction added to the jostling as she made her way up the steps to the red brick edifice: the Harold Washington Branch of Chicago's Public Library. Opening the door met Charlotte with crisp, cool air. It certainly was a relief from the humidity that was beginning to curl her hair. She quickly smoothed out dirty blonde curls and tucked fly-aways back into her bun.

"Morning, Miss Falk," Charlie Barks the security guard called out as he straightened his tie.

"Morning, Charlie!" Charlotte called back as she scurried to the check-out counter. "How's Mary?" Charlotte worried for Charlie's wife ever since the frail woman fell down a flight of stairs a week after Charlotte became an archivist at the branch two years ago. Charlie replied back with his usual quip about his wife still taking the elevator. Charlotte only let out a short chuckle, her eyes wrinkling. She swiped her I.D. on the pinpad under the desk and punched in her code - 3451 - her parents' home address. Her older brother, Matthew, would nag her about having a more secure number. Perhaps something less sentimental, preferably a set of digits that changed every week. But that is how all bankers think, and Charlotte gave up trying to create and remember a new pin every seven days.

Judy Perkins, an elderly librarian who seemed to have been born with baggy clothes that smelled like mothballs and twelve cats, walked by the Welcome Desk. Charlotte quickly averted her eyes, hoping to avoid conflict with the eternally gritchy woman. It would throw a child patron a curve ball when he or she first arrived for Read-A-Loud, expecting a kind young man studying to be a teacher or a matronly woman capable of creating voices for each character. Ms. Perkins' bland delivery would make even a novice stage performer cry; it certainly had caused seven-year olds to shed a few tears. Charlotte simply shook her head, reminding herself not to offer to help the woman as she drug a high-backed chair across the common room, leaving marks in the aged carpeting one would expect to see at the scene of a kidnapping. On her first morning two years ago, Charlotte had made the mistake of asking Ms. Perkins if she needed someone to help her move the chair to the Children's Reading Room. The humiliation of the encounter and the shock of Ms. Perkins' unrepeatable response still brought a shiver to Charlotte's heart.

Instead, the young archivist made her way to the third floor, weaving between bookshelves to the Genealogy and Local History Room. It was a quaint little office that doubled as her work space, with a joining door that led to the rows of filing cabinets, work tables, and slide viewers that were open to the public. It smelled musty, with the dry air coming through the vents in torrents. They created a white noise that caused most patrons to complain. Charlotte found it surprisingly comforting, bringing back memories of open windows and a roaring fireplace in her grandfather's modest study.

Charlotte let her bag drop to the floor at her desk with a soft thump and let herself collapse into the wheeled chair. Her slightly pounding head almost made her forget to switch on her clearanced electric kettle at her feet.

The commute from her studio apartment on Fullerton Avenue to Harold Washington Branch on State Street was not one that she would consider boring. It offered plenty of opportunities to people-watch and read the previous day's _Wall Street Journal,_ more than likely left behind by a businessman, that almost always found itself wedged between the seat and the grimy metal wall. This morning's route had left Charlotte a little frazzled, what with her alarm clock not ringing; the lightning must have hit the local transformer, leaving the digital lights forever stuck on 3:47. The baby at the other end of the car that squealed for a solid ten minutes certainly hadn't helped matters.

But now, with the silence of her office and the comfort of the electric kettle whistling, Charlotte let out a long and ragged breath. She would pour herself a nice cup of tea, check her work email on the ancient desktop computer, and then finish the work she had leftover from yesterday.

And she did just that. It's surprising, the simple things a person can do that seem to fix all the world's problems. "But it _is_ Friday!" She tried adding a cheerful tone, hoping that would lighten her mood.

Her little email inbox sported only one new message since she had left yesterday.

HELP WITH ANCESTRY. Charlotte wondered what could warrant the need for capitalization, and scanned the email. Only a local civil rights lawyer, asking for family history now that his father was dying. Charlotte replied back quickly, pulling up her draft email containing her request for any information already known so that she could refine her search. She shook her head with a rueful smile. She didn't begrudge people who emailed without information; it wasn't common knowledge _what_ she did let alone how she did it and what she would need to achieve the finished product. After sending her response, she pulled her ceramic cup out of its home in the drawer of her desk. "Best Aunt Ever!" it screamed with childish scrawl, and plenty of pink and yellow tulips were stenciled around it. Charlotte would have prefered forget-me-nots, but knew that her brother's daughter, a fairy-like five-year old, made it for this past Christmas. Charlotte remembered Jessica's giggle as she watched her aunt fumble with the overly wrapped gift, pulling off more than two rolls of Scotch tape and only a layer or two of paper decorated with little dancing Frosty the Snowmans.

Wiping the cup out with her bare hand, Charlotte dropped an oolong bag into the bottom, figuring she needed the hint of caffeine rather than the calming effects of chamomile. She rubbed her eyes as she drank, thinking of what she had in her apartment's fridge that could be thrown together for dinner tonight. She shuddered to think what nonna and poppa would say, sure of her mother's parents' scorn at the haphazard leftovers and rudimentary meals. "Need to feed _mia principessa_ ," nonna would grumble while whipping up _penne a la carbonara_ and knowing Charlotte's resistance would be futile. Poppa would mention something about putting more meat on her bones. Charlotte rubbed her thighs thoughtfully, thinking she needed to lose a little meat rather than gain it.

Her ruminations were interrupted by the _ping_ of her email, signaling the lawyer's reply. He and both sides of his family were from the area, which would make her search a bit easier. Printing out the information, she finished her tea and headed into the joint Research and Archival Room.

A smile split her face as she stepped inside, taking in a deep breath to capture the old and musty aroma. She may have taken in one more inhalation, ensuring her lungs drank greedily from that unfinished basement smell that somehow always found its way up three floors before she settled down at the clunky research desktop.

Opening up the program, she began plugging in the information given and jamming down on the "W" space that had been missing the key for almost four months. Submitting the digital form, she quickly moved on with confidence that the algorithms and codes would do their work. Charlotte riffled through crackling books and decades-old census records. She muttered to herself, trying to keep both sides of the lawyer's family in mind while she searched. Wilson and Booth were on opposite ends of any collection, and that surely would have given her carpal tunnel if she had kept at it. She marked no fewer than ten pages before the computer's ascending ring alerted the cavernous room of the search results.


	3. Chapter 3: Convince Me

A/N: As always, insert typical disclaimer here! :) This is just a taste of Tony/Pepper. I know that in later films and storylines their relationship gets awfully rocky, but I felt that for the purposes of my story - and for the easing of my romantic heart - that they were both better off together rather than apart. Tony is another one of those characters that is harder to pin down, as he is larger than life in many regards. But his sass and often-times seemingly whimsical/cocky nature were certainly the traits I played around with while drafting and finalizing this chapter and others to follow. Drop me a line if you think there are nuances to Tony and/or Pepper that you would like to see or believe to be canon. I love being in communication with other writers and analyzers!

Convince Me:

"Storytellers are individuals who enjoy creating a holiday for the mind." - Linda Daly

"That is what I am trying to avoid, Pepper!" Priceless shoes scuffed across the polished tile of the sixty-fifth floor of Avenger's Tower in New York City. Crisis crews had been working non-stop from the day the attack had occurred, cleaners sweeping away debris and large cranes and wrecking machines removing gnarled metals from where they had landed after being blasted by alien weapons technology. Stark Enterprises had been at the forefront of the aid relief, ensuring that the city would be able to rise up from the ashes of the destruction that had come at the hands of, in Tony Stark's words, 'an egotistical Asgardian asshole who wanted to throw a temper-tantrum.'

Hands, slightly scarred from mechanical work, flew around their owner's handsome face which sported a trimmed goatee. What Tony Stark wanted, Tony Stark got - so long as he had that desire approved by his CEO and girlfriend, Virginia Potts.

In this particular instance, the billionaire was in the market for someone to maintain his collection of unarchived documents. Pepper still was not sold on her boyfriend's 'grand idea.' No, his exact words were, 'grand, flawless, secure' idea to maintain his collection of decades old blueprints, maps, formulas, and books that he had inherited after the tragic death of his parents.

"Look, all I'm saying is that should - and that is a pretty big _should_! - someone be brilliant enough to hack JARVIS, I would like to have some things that are not digitized." Tony collapsed onto his office's leather sofa and propped his feet up on the glass coffee table. It matched the set of modern furniture, complete with chromatic coloring and sharp edges. Pepper rolled her eyes at his behavior, knowing she would need to ensure someone also took Windex to the black marks on the surface after Tony left for the day. She crossed her arms, wrinkling her pristine suit jacket. Her hip reflexively jutted slightly out into a relaxed stance, brought about by years of working with the incorrigible man in front of her.

"So you are doubting JARVIS's skill and security? That doesn't seem like you to second-guess your ability, Tony." She had a point: Tony Stark's pride and confidence were legendary. With his head propped up on the back of the sofa, the man in question rubbed his forehead in frustration, trying to think of another way to convince Pepper. He decided that, in this case, the truth was his only option.

He flung up his hands in defeat. "Fine, here it is: if I can hack SHIELD in thirty minutes, then I know that it's possible for the reverse to happen." Pepper looked stunned to hear Tony voicing his fear so candidly, without wit and sarcasm. He was looking her directly in the eye, his right hand clenched. "I know there are very few people out there who can match me," _Ah_ , thought Pepper, _that cockiness is not gone completely_ , "but they do still exist. And if SHIELD can have intelligent men like Fury and Coulson working for them, you can bet they - and others - have similar guys sneaking around and gathering information."

The two were silent for a short moment, thinking of the possibilities in terms of destruction that could occur should someone steal electronic copies of the plans Tony had filed away on his servers. In the wrong hands, that information could be deadly on a catastrophic level. What happened a few months ago in this very city would pale in comparison, and that attacker did not even have details on building specifications, water transportation, emergency services' response initiatives. Even outdated information could be useful to an enemy hell-bent on decimation.

"At least with a person, an employee, I can hand-pick and vet them. I can control one person, but I can't guarantee a machine will think without me or JARVIS always there holding the reins."

At the multiple mentions of his name, the A.I. _pinged_ to life from Tony's phone. "I must agree with him, Ms. Potts," came the British voice. "While I appreciate your defence of my skills, I cannot account for everything." At this, Tony quirked his brow and pointed to the device. Pepper gave an exasperated sigh, her arms unfolding to droop defeatedly.

"Fine! But you are doing all the work yourself and don't come crying to me when you get frustrated with the interview process." Tony's child-like grin almost made up for Pepper's frustration. It tugged at her heart strings until it elicited a small smile and eyeroll from her.

Tony leapt from his relaxed position and clutched Pepper to him, holding her so that her thin heeled shoes wouldn't cause a disaster. "I've got this," he said, giving her a quick peck on the lips. "How hard could it be, right?" Pepper just quirked an eyebrow. It was difficult to remain frustrated with Tony sometimes. His enthusiasm and complete trust in himself was so catchy that she was often hard-pressed to find fault with his logic. "But, if you have a few suggestions on where to start," he wheedled. His face twitched with a suave smirk.

Pepper just chuckled and kissed him again, patting him on the shoulder. "I'll see what I can dredge up, but I won't do all the leg work for you." And with Tony's fervent pledge that he wouldn't leave it all up to her, he rushed out of the office with a spring in his step.


	4. Chapter 4: Please, Take Notice

Please, Take Notice:

"I am a storyteller. The type that went from place to place, gathered people in the square and transported them, inspired them, woke them up, shook their insides around so that they could resettle in a new pattern, a new way of being." - Donna Jacobs Sife

Charlotte continued her process for the remainder of the day, her lack of patrons allowing for a more thorough compilation of sepia-toned photographs, wilting birth certificates, and even a crackling, digital copy of a radio program from the 80's when Booth's cousin on his mother's side unsuccessfully ran for mayor.

She had taken a 45-minute lunch break, more to rest her aching hands and straining eyes that to appease a wailing stomach. She ate her crumbly ham sandwich and two mealy apples alone in the dimly lit breakroom. There were only a handful of librarians around her age, and even that would not have made much of a difference: Charlotte was cooped up in her little world of the antique, historical, and fraying. There was Marci over in the Young Adult and Teen section, looking spunky and connected to her inner teen, her lip piercing and koi tattoo always a conversation starter with the students who came for after school programs and a safe place to hang. Marcus was part of the General Research branch, rarely making human contact and generating results seemingly out of thin air. Charlotte had tried talking to him once, but he froze with his mouth as agape as the fish on Marci's neck. Charlotte finally showed mercy and waved him away, watching as he scuttled back to his cubicle.

The one chance for the young librarian to get a semblance of human contact outside of her designated work was after she had punched out for the day. Charlotte loitered in the Children's Reading Room, waiting for the local CPS bus to drop off the elementary students for their after school program. The line of students following Ms. Perkins looked like some macabre rendition of Miss Clavel and her little charges. When they saw Charlotte, a few broke rank. They did nothing to quiet the thudding of their strides.

One young girl in particular charged ahead, her braided weave jouncing back and forth and the beads making the distinct plastic clinking.

"Miss Charlotte!" Shaunte barreled into Charlotte, her face burrowing into the young woman's sweater. Charlotte had plenty of practice over her two years, learning how to brace herself against the unusually strong onslaught of the little girl she now held close. It was like catching a bouquet of Black Forest calla lilies.

"Hey sweetheart! How was your day?" Charlotte smiled down and her little charge beamed up, her pearly whites clear against a mocking mouth. Shaunte pulled out her trademark charm.

"Well!" Charlotte could see the actress in her ooze out from where it had been hiding during the school day. "These idiots wouldn't stop talking during silent study so they ruined _everything_ for the rest of us." Her miniature hands motioned wildly, almost taking attention from her expressive face. "I told 'em to shut up but they kept talken-" here, Shaunte grabbed Charlotte's hand and led the little troupe to the cluster of bean-bag chairs, cushions, and a comfy, lumpy armchair that was seated low to the floor. "-and then Mr. Milton almost gave me a _detention_!" Charlotte made sure to look sufficiently horrified, knowing by now how to pull the little storyteller to the frontlines. Shaunte nodded in silent agreement, her eyes wide. "But I got 'em back at lunch, so…" Charlotte knew not to pressure, remembering the last time she asked what the then third-grader had done to one of her classmates in retaliation for a heinous slight.

It had been an inventive maneuver to be sure.

"The less I know, the better, sweetheart." Charlotte received a confirming huff.

The other children had already begun taking seats, and Charlotte had to separate two boys from their kerfuffle over the soccer ball-shaped bean-bag chair. They now sat at opposite ends of the semicircle. Charlotte settled down, fanning her skirt around her and carefully tucking her feet away from the small of Shaunte's back. She had taken up her standard seat, kitty-corner to the librarian. Tommy, a fifth-grader who had just recently gotten braces, yanked a slightly crumpled paperback from his drawstring bag and the novel slowly made its way to Charlotte's hands.

Although Ms. Perkins was the official Children's Librarian on staff, her lack of skill for storytelling was legendary. The students had eventually learned that if they wanted any entertainment they would have to find a replacement. And it had been Shaunte who, without any shame or reserve, had stalked up to Charlotte and demanded a story. On that wintry day two years ago, Charlotte had been making her reluctant way out the door after her shift. But when faced with begging eyes, her heart melted and from that day forward had become the unofficial storybook reader to the group of students.

Today, the book was _Bridge to Terabithia_ , and Charlotte hoped that she would not read too much. It wouldn't be best for her to bawl like a baby in front of the kids.

"Chapter One," Charlotte began. Young heads leaned forward, the little bodies propped up by arms lying atop crossed legs. "It's titled 'Jesse Oliver Aarons, Jr.' and it goes like this." And so Charlotte dove into the world of ten-year-old Jesse and his friend Leslie and the adventures they had together. This particular copy had nice black-and-white illustrations, and Charlotte made sure to hold the book open wide enough for everyone to see them properly. She found a stopping point at the end of Chapter Two, as parents were beginning to sidle in and pull their children away.

"When he came out later with the pail and stool," Charlotte concluded heavily, "she was gone." Charlotte marked the page with a tissue from her bag and handed it back to Tommy, whose aunt had just arrived in her supermarket uniform to take him home. "Thanks so much for letting us borrow the book for read-aloud," Charlotte said with a smile. Tommy beamed at her as he hastily stuffed the book back into his bag, nearly tripping over the reading rug as he tried to continue to walk backward in the process. Charlotte chuckled, waving as they left. Slowly rising from her seat, the young woman's back cracked, and she rubbed it soothingly as she gave Shaunte one last hug before the young girl ran over to her father.

Bending for her bag, she noticed Rob Kelley, the head of Human Resources, lingering and trying to catch her attention. Wondering what he needed, Charlotte made her way over. Mr. Kelley was clutching a manilla folder, looking slightly nervous, and Charlotte wondered if he had been waiting for her to finish her storytelling. When she asked him this, he looked contrite.

"Yeah, wanted to let ya read to the kids before I caught ya." He jabbed a thumb to the administrative offices across the room. "Can I have a minute to talk?" His voice crackled a bit, having just recently gotten over a bitter cold and stuffy nose.

"Yeah, sure, of course," Charlotte stumbled a bit for the right word. She wasn't quite sure what Mr. Kelley needed to talk about, as just last month she had sat down with him as he conducted his annual breakdown of her pay and benefits. Entering his little office, she smiled slightly at the framed photo of him and his son at a Cubs game, their smiles wide as their backs faced Wrigley Field's diamond. Mr. Kelley's college baseball glove was propped up on a shelf behind him, and a blue and orange pennant from the University of Illinois was tacked to the wall.

Taking a seat in the cushioned chair, Charlotte smoothed out her skirt. A nervous habit to be sure, one she had picked up from her mother.

Mr. Kelley cleared his throat, though Charlotte wasn't sure if it was to clear his airways or to steel himself for conversation. "Sorry to make you stay so much longer, but this just couldn't wait. And like I said, I wanted to you to get to read to the kids first." Mr. Kelley had also taken a seat, and patted the folder on his desk as if to assure himself that it was still in existence. His twitchy body language did nothing to calm Charlotte. She began picking at her thumbnail. "I'm really not sure how to begin, Charlotte. This isn't really the conversation I wanted to have with you, but our board of directors wasn't giving me a choice and the archives are just not on the top of the branch's priorities right now." He trailed off again, and Charlotte stopped breathing. She felt cold all of a sudden, despite hearing the heating kick on.

"I'm still a little confused, Mr. Kelley," Charlotte all but whispered. Perhaps she was just misreading his cues?

But the repentant look he gave her told her all she needed. He mumbled and fumbled, tremblingly taking a pink slip out of the folder and sliding it over to her. "We haven't been getting the funding we need, and they wanted me to cut back. I tried to see if maybe just a few hours here and there would work, but it just wasn't enough. They picked four people, and well," he licked his lips in an attempt to garner more courage. "Like I said, we haven't been seeing a whole lot of interest in the archives lately. Even our research programs and events don't draw enough of a crowd."

Charlotte looked down at the paper. _Notice of Termination of Employment_. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She tried adjusting her glasses, hoping it was some trick of the light. The buzzing in her ears was too loud to be the heating system.

"You have two weeks from today," Mr. Kelley stuttered and then finally cracked. "I'm so sorry Charlotte, but there was nothing I could do."

She needed a drink. Her throat felt like it was closing up. Picking up the paper with trembling hands, Charlotte stuffed it into her bag as if it burned. "Thank you for telling me in person, Mr. Kelley," she croaked. "That means a lot, really."

Charlotte stood abruptly. She needed to get out and go home, scream into her pillow. Instead she bit her tongue and sent a watery smile toward the man. He muttered something about it being protocol, "but of course anything for you, Charlotte." She didn't catch anything else. Grabbing her bag she all but stumbled from the office. Dazed, she made her way to the exit. Although, her eyes still caught details as if hyperaware. There was the dark stain on the carpeting near the door, where Marci had dropped her latte the other morning while trying to make her way indoors from the rain. There was a chip in the wood of the door where a young boy had tossed his phone in a screaming rage three months ago. Passing through the atrium, she barely remembered to wave to Charlie. But she certainly noticed his look of worry, the way his sparse and wiry eyebrows curled every which way.

Charlotte was unaware her whole commute back to her studio apartment. Her entire willpower was being used to keep her from letting loose the heart-wrenching sobs that were clawing their way up her esophagus. Every jostle from a fellow commuter felt like a stab of agony. It wasn't until she made it up the creaky stairway and collapsed on her futon that she let go, her dinner of leftovers completely forgotten.

She cried over the situation. She cried out of fear. She cried because she was crying.

Then, exhausted, she fell asleep.


End file.
